_Rosy O’Grady’s_ belly turret opened up, followed by Tony Romani’s fire from the “stinger” turret in the tail. As it ceased, the thought came to Barry Blake: “We’ve knocked them out of the sky! I thought those Japs were tough fighters, but this was like shooting clay pigeons. There’s nothing in sight but three Zeros torching down below—” A slamming explosion jarred the fuselage. Then the side gun manned by Curly Levitt chattered harshly. Out of the corner of his eye, Barry saw the nearest Fortress stagger out of place in the V. “Pilot from top gunner!” Soapy Babbitt’s report came through the phones. “Turret damaged by enemy shells. Machine guns still fire, but can’t aim.” “Are you hurt, Soapy?” the Old Man asked. “My left shoulder won’t work right,” came Babbitt’s reply. “Nothing to worry about. I’ll keep watch for more diving Zeros.” “Ready, Blake!” O’Grady spoke sharply. “Watch your throttles—we’re nearing our targets now.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER EIGHT FLYING WRECKAGE Barry glued his eyes to the r.p.m. indicator. He forced his nerves to ignore the antiaircraft shells that burst closer and closer. This was the big moment of the whole raid—when the bombs were about to plummet down. Cold air from the open bomb-bay doors rushed into the big ship’s belly. There came the welcome whistle of a falling bomb; then another, and another. A moment afterward the harbor of Rabaul swept beneath. It was out of sight before Barry could spot the bomb hits. KRANG! An antiaircraft burst rocked the big bomber like a cradle. Her right inboard engine sputtered and quit. Looking out at the wing, Barry glimpsed a jagged shrapnel hole in the cowling. He glanced to the left. Another Fortress had been hit. She was falling out of formation. “Never mind, boys, _Rosy O’Grady_ can toddle home all right on three engines,” the Old Man declared. “All you’ve got to do is to smack down every Zero you see....” “Here come three of ’em, straight down at us!” yelped Soapy Babbitt from the jammed top turret. “If only I could aim these guns!” “Maybe a Jap will cross your sights, Soapy!” the Old Man grunted, as he reefed back on the wheel. “I’ll try to give Hale a shot.” _Rosy’s_ nose came up. Her forward guns cut loose at the trio of diving planes. One spun away, smoking; another changed direction. The third kept coming, with his tracer bullets feeling for the Flying Fortress. When they touched her the Jap pilot pulled the trigger of his cannon. A stunning blast threw Barry hard against his safety belt. Something—it felt like a hard-thrown baseball—struck his head. He felt himself falling into a black void. Someone was shaking him, none too gently. A voice, Curly Levitt’s, pierced through his dulled consciousness. “Wake up, Barry! Wake up and take over these controls before I have to,” the navigator was repeating in his ear. “The Old Man is out cold—ripped by that shell.”